I take it in (but don't look down)
by agent iz hyper
Summary: It's been a long while since anyone's taken watch over him constantly while sick. So, this here? Stiles feels like he should be a lot more uncomfortable with it than he is. It's just... nice, for a change. Even if it is Derek. Or is it inspite of the fact that it's Derek? / Includes sick!Stiles and couch snuggles, also Derek makes comfort!soup. Can you really resist?


**A/N:** This is a birthday present to the very awesome (and cough high maintenance jkjk ily bro) Renae who, um, okay I know you prompted me with the BBQ fic and I swear I am planning on writing it, but idk how long that'll take cuz I get lazy, you know me. And this got done today so I thought, meh, why not?

ENJOY ALL THE STEREK Also jfc i still can't believe you're 18 get away from me grandma :P *flees*

(Title is taken from Imagine Dragons' song **On Top Of The World** which is amazing and uplifting and I just love their songs okay)

* * *

><p>As impromptu pack meetings go, this one kind of sucks. Stiles looks around at the two distracted betas present, at a disgruntled Derek, out at the preserve where the rest of the pack (hopefully) is, and sighs.<p>

He'd like nothing more than to burst out with an "I told you sending them out to search alone would come back to bite us in the ass and end potentially horribly for them, if not all of us, didn't I?" but holds back partly because Scott's out there somewhere, has been for a good two hours now, and partly because Derek's Very Angry Eyebrows have reached all new levels of pissed off (maybe also concerned, which isn't a thing the alpha acknowledges, but it's okay, Stiles knows the truth) and, contrary to very popular belief, Stiles does not take perverse pleasure in riling him up further.

...Okay, well, not much. And not always. Limits! Stiles sometimes knows what those are!

But mostly he keeps quiet due to the fact that opening his mouth might just give way to the barrage of sneezes he 's been feeling building up the whole ten minutes they've been gathered here. That's not even accounting for the undoubtedly near incoherence of any speech that spills forth from him right now, thanks to a very much stuffy nose.

It's beyond irritating, true, but he sucks it up and focuses on Derek's instructions (orders).

"From what I can tell, their scents cut off around the east border of the preserve." He's tense, but then they all are. Stiles doesn't know what exactly it means if an Alpha can't track his betas (and Scott) or sense them at all but obviously it's not fucking good. "Isaac, Erica, stay near the loft in case they turn up; howl if you catch any unfamiliar scent."

Isaac nods; Erica frowns, looks like she wants to argue about going to look for Boyd and Scott and Jackson, Stiles knows she hates feeling helpless, but a pointed look from Derek has her disgruntledly backed down. "Fine, but we're coming if there's lots of trouble, you'll need the back up if the others are hurt." She juts her chin forward just slightly and frowns at Derek, not so much an act of defiance as Erica being as strongheaded as usual.

Stiles admires her for it; he can't fault her when he'd act the same, wanting to help their friends and pack in any way.

Derek nods once before turning and striding off into the treeline, calling over his shoulder, "Stiles, you're with me."

Wait, what?

Stiles stumbles after him, catching up and managing not to trip and brain himself on a tree in the process. "What," he manages, before sneezing once.

Derek shoots him a heated glare that lasts a heartbeat yet manages to send a loud and clear message of "don't be so fucking loud or I'll skewer you to a tree with my claws" and Stiles makes a face at the back of his head but doesn't say anything. It would actually royally suck to be found by whatever took the others because he sneezed too loud.

After a moment of not getting an answer to his semi question, Stiles pokes Derek in the side and frowns at him pointedly. Huffing, Derek says in a low voice, "I need someone who's not werewolf in case they're being held behind mountain ash or something, okay?"

Oh. That makes sense. Especially when one considers the fact that Stiles can very much not sniff out anything (right now especially with the blocked nose, but also ever because, hello, human) and so being told he's going tracking with the alpha had baffled him. Stiles shrugs and marches on silently, occasionally wrinkling his nose to try getting rid of the itch building up there. He can feel Derek narrowing his eyes at him, probably because he's being quieter than the werewolf's ever seen him.

Whatever, Derek's always going on about him never knowing how to shut up, he has no right to question Stiles now that he's not actually spilling every thought and idea he has at a mile a minute.

Thirteen minutes and six muffled sneezes later (also half a pocketful of tissues), Derek comes to a halt and reaches out a hand to jerk Stiles back too. He ignores the indignant "_hey_!" as Stiles pulls out of his grip, rubbing at where Derek had grabbed him tightly. Sometimes he doesn't know if Derek does this shit as a way to get back at Stiles for all the (admittedly - and only deep in his own mind - mostly on purpose) crap he puts him through or if he honestly doesn't realise his own goddamn super-werewolf-superstrength _especially on a freaking human._

Anyway, they stop wandering around - okay, fine, Stiles stops wandering around; Derek stops tracking because apparently he's caught a whiff of something. Stiles steps back and watches as he subtly lifts his nose to catch the scent, eyes dark as they scan the trees, and gropes miserably in his pockets for another tissue.

After a second of concentration, possibly listening to a conversation if his look is anything to go by, Derek says, "They're switching shifts in five, we should attack then."

Stiles nods seriously, speaks for the first time so far. "Hunders?" He regrets it immediately when his throat twinges; he's been manfully trying to ignore that part of his flu-sore body.

Derek nods distractedly, still concentrating on the conversation. Stiles tries to blow his nose quietly. Obviously, with Derek's superhearing on, it's not quiet at all, and he finds himself with a face full of irritated werewolf.

Derek's eyebrows are pulled down low and his eyes flick over Stiles' face like something is offending him. Stiles is offended himself. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he demands, clearly referring to the absolutely miserable state of Stiles' face.

Stiles scowls at him. He's very well conscious of how red his nose and cheeks must be, and his watery eyes, and dry lips, he doesn't need Mister Perfect here glowering at him like he's being irritating. "Flu," he says shortly. Sneezes into his sleeve to prove his point (whatever, it works in his favour, okay). Refuses to elaborate to Derek's now baffled furrowed eyebrows because_ isn't that fucking obvious._

"Should you even be _standing_ with the way you look?" Derek raises an eyebrow. Stiles narrows his watering eyes at him.

He can't help the indignant beginnings of a rant that bursts out of him. "Wow, douchebag, excuse me for not letting this very human flu keep me from doing what I can to help _my freaking friends out there -_ what d'you expect me to do, lay at home stewing in my own tissues and misery?" He takes a breath to continue (alright fine, so maybe he really _really_ doesn't like keeping quiet for so long, sue him) but Derek's eyes are wide and he's quick to shove Stiles back against the tree three feet behind him and covering his mouth - lips parted in startled silence - with his hand.

"Shut up!" he hisses, face turned to the right presumably to whatever noise he caught, and like super close to Stiles'. It always disarms him when this happens, _every single time_, because no mere mortal can possibly handle Derek Hale's stupid face from this non-distance and it's _not even fair, _Stiles' brain already feels enough like mush from the flu, this isn't fucking helping.

Derek still hasn't moved his hand. Stiles almost bites him, has a split second to consider the consequences, before shoving the offending limb away from his face and violently sneezing. Loudly. Five times.

"Oh by god we're godda _die,_" he moans, wiping helplessly at his nose as Derek curses angrily when sounds of running feet start to approach them. Derek steps forward and shoves at Stiles with a terse, "Go, go! Find the others, don't get caught!"

Stiles doesn't waste time, just stumbles off into a sprint right as four hunters burst out from his far left. Listening to Derek's alpha growl as he runs, he can pretty safely say they either didn't see him or won't have a chance to run after him even if they did.

It takes a few disoriented moments of wiping watery eyes and a runny nose before he literally runs over a line of what could be mountain ash and right into three trussed-up werewolves.

"Scott!" Stiles cries out, dropping to his knees and quickly ridding his packmates of their gags and the ropes binding them together. "Thank god you're all fine," he sighs in relief, taking in Scott and Jackson's ripped and bloodied shirts, the dried blood on Boyd's arms, evidences of long-healed wounds. Only things left are the raw marks on their wrists from the wolfsbane-laced rope.

All in all, could be a lot worse.

"Where's Derek?" Jackson asks as soon as he's on his feet, looking pissed off about the state of his shirt.

"You okay, Stiles?" Scott asks at the same time, staring at him with his familiar concerned-puppy look. Boyd just raises his eyebrows and looks pointedly at the circle of mountain ash trapping them in.

Stiles moves to break the line so they can get out, answering them quickly, "I'm fine, buddy. Derek's dealing with the hunters back that way, let's go."

Boyd's the first to reach Derek, moving in quickly to pull back a hunter about to shoot at his unguarded back while he attacks another hunter. Jackson takes down the closest unsuspecting guy in a second, and Scott stays next to Stiles, an arm around his shoulders because what with all the excitement of the night he's starting to feel a little drowsy and lost.

* * *

><p>In the end, it takes about five seconds to take the hunters down with no more injuries than they started off with. They trudge back to Derek's loft as one, reunite with Isaac and Erica, before everyone separates to their own homes for the night. Scott sets Stiles on the couch and looks at him all worried. Stiles waves a hand.<p>

"'s okay, dude, I'm good. Y'go on, I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Scott wavers, makes sure Stiles doesn't want him to grab some meds off him mom, because he's an inherently nice person and the best buddy a guy could ask for. Stiles reassures him again that it's fine, he probably looks worse than he feels, and _yes _he can get home all right.

...Mostly true. Not a lie enough to make Scott frown upon detecting it, so he walks out the door with Isaac and leaves Stiles alone with Derek.

Which may be potentially awkward or leading to further irritation on either side if, well, Stiles doesn't fall asleep then and there.

On Derek's couch.

...He's sick, okay

* * *

><p>Waking up is a horrible thing. For a moment, Stiles is sure that the hunters had caught him too and have been driving screws into his temples or something.<p>

It's horrible.

He groans. Wishes he hadn't because _motherfucker_ his _throat_. Turns to the side so he can hide his face in the unfamiliar pillow and ends up sneezing from the movement.

Again, and again and again and again, until his nose feels ready to launch off. Everything's _horrible_, has he mentioned that?

But then someone shoves something in front of him, he feels it poke at his face. Stiles cracks an eye open, then widens both when he sees that the thing in front of him is a tissue box.

He's happy to close his eyes again and blow his nose to his heart's content for the next minute or so.

Until it catches up to him. Mostly thanks to the fact that he's not in his bed and that there's someone else in the room (_not his room_) who gave him the tissues (and he is therefore forever indebted to. Or something.) and is likely standing in front of him and staring.

He opens his eyes again and looks up. Derek's eyebrows greet him in a furrow. Stiles groans again and continues hiding his face in the pillow he's clutching.

"What are you doing here," he grumbles. It comes out garbled at best, half the words lost in the pillow, but he doesn't care.

Derek is silent for a moment. Stiles imagines his eyes doing the whole murdery glare thing. "Where else would I be, Stiles," he eventually says and Stiles just _knows_ his eyebrows are raised and judging him. "You're on my couch."

Oh. That explains the weirdness of this not-bed. "Oh. Mmkay." He can't quite bring himself to care. It's comfortable enough, and he's sick, he's totally entitled to not moving for the next six hours. "Y'can go now, sleep is good, Ima sleep."

Derek most certainly does not go anywhere. It's annoying, okay, because even with his eyes shut and half his face squished into the pillow he can feel the looming brooding presence in front of him. Stiles huffs, cracks open an eye to glare up at him blearily, and makes a shooing motion with his hand.

"You've been sleeping all morning." Derek sounds grumpy about the fact, like he'd had plans on this couch and Stiles has singlehandedly ruined every one of them.

Stiles grunts and rolls over to face the back cushions. It makes him cough, chest aching and head starting to throb with the movement.

"What's wrong with you?"

Mouthing an irritated "oh my god", Stiles whips his head around to scowl up at Derek, who's face is doing a scrunchy wrinkled-nose thing that... actually looks more (infuriatingly adorably, what the hell) confused than anything. "I'm sick, moron," he rasps. (I'b sick, boron... And this is why he tries not to talk). "You never seen a sick human before? And what's with the face, I stink or something?"

Derek blinks at him. "Your scent's... off."

This actually quirks his interest. He flips onto his back, sniffles into a tissue, and peers up at Derek in interest. "Off how?" He narrows his eyes. "What do I even smell like normally?"

Which, uh, y'know, may not be the smartest question to ask a werewolf especially when said werewolf is a mass of sexified glory and a bad (ridiculously maybe worryingly hot) habit of slamming Stiles into hard surfaces then proceeding to shove his stupid face stupidly close to Stiles'. Werewolves can smell emotions. They can likely smell a lot more.

Stiles wants to take back his question. But then Derek looks a vague mix of amused and something that may be an attempt at being nonchalant because he shrugs. "I don't know, a mix of smells, and all this energy..." His eyes flick up to Stiles' for a second before shooting away again. "Among other things."

Okay, he takes it back, this vague answer is a non answer in Stiles' books, he wants a _proper response _dammit it was a legitimate question. Ish.

His body, however, has other plans. Plans like a sneeze attack that leaves him feeling all woozy and bleary-eyed and also gross. He sniffs miserably and curls into a ball, helping himself to the tissue box.

"Do you need anything?" Derek asks, still hovering unsurely.

Stiles, under other circumstances, would be making wisecracks about the confident alpha being out of his depth in the face of something so meagre as the flu. As it is, he manages an amused snort, and blinks up at him. "Cough drops would be nice? And not moving, maybe, yeah, that'll be great actually, m'head _hurts_." He sighs and squirms into a more comfortable position, feeling tired and sleepy even though he literally hasn't done anything more than sneeze and cough.

Derek gets this sort of squinty look before nodding and starting to move away. Stiles, half-asleep, makes a vague noise of protest and throws out an arm in an attempt to latch on to his wrist. "No, what, don't leave I'm _miserable_ here."

Derek frowns down at the hand clutching at him. He huffs; Stiles blinks at him slowly before releasing his wrist and hiding back in the pillow, only to resume staring when Derek says grumpily, "You're hot."

Stiles scowls. "No, _you're _hot." (He's not pouting. He isn't. It's just- the flu's enough without a fever on top, c'mon.)

Derek raises a totally judging eyebrow but just says, "You should go back to sleep."

And. Well. Stiles isn't gonna turn down that suggestion, it's a wonderful suggestion, the best, he's totally getting on that right now. "Sure thing," he sighs complacently and slips his eyes shut, relaxing into the couch again and letting the headache fade away.

He thinks vaguely that might be a result of the hand laying softly on his forehead and leeching away any paim, but he's out before he can open his eyes to check.

* * *

><p>The second time Stiles wakes up, he has to shut his eyes and reopen them a couple more times to make sure he's actually awake and not dreaming.<p>

He squints them open for the third time and, yep, okay, he's either gone feverishly-delirious or Derek Hale is really lounging next to him in a chair and flipping through a thick book, looking for all the world like this is a thing he does all the time.

He doesn't look up even after a full minute of Stiles outright staring at him - he can't help it, okay, he's been startled. Try waking up to a very relaxed-looking book-reading Derek (on closer inspection, it's a Tolkien novel. What.) and not needing a moment to process.

Eventually, Stiles yawns and shifts around, propping an elbow under him and squinting around the darkened loft. He winces at the soreness in his throat. "'time is it?" he croaks.

Derek flips another page. "Four thirty."

This does nothing to help with Stiles' confusion. "In the morning?" It was maybe midnight when he crashed here, but he maybe vaguely remembers Derek sulking at him for taking up the couch earlier and also- why is Derek up so early?

But then he shoots Stiles a look over the book and says, "_No_, in the evening."

What? He slept through the _day_?

"_What_," Stiles says out loud with a gape, because seriously. "I slept through the day?" He pauses, glances at the werewolf through narrowed eyes, suspicious. "You _let me_ sleep on your couch the whole day?"

Derek does look up properly then, shooting him a _shut up _glare that's probably covering up the fact that he's secretly a softy under the whole tough guy (werewolf) act but just doesn't want to admit that he didn't have the heart to make Stiles move while sick. Which Stiles totally knows all about, by the way, because Derek's almost fond of his betas at the best of times, when they're not being pissy teenagers, and no matter what anyone says, he totally doesn't scare Stiles anymore.

...Also, Stiles is very likely feverish. He is. If he wasn't, he absolutely would not have followed that up with a teasing, "Aw _shucks_ Derek, didn't know you cared about little ol' me. I mean, not gonna lie, I totally expected to wake up on the floor with..." He trails off because, _wait_. Ignoring his little tirade, Derek had stowed his book away and then proceeded to shove a bowl of steaming beautiful-smelling soup under Stiles' nose with a flat (uncomfortable? What _is_ that look?) glare to shut up and take it.

"Did you make me _soup_," Stiles manages to say, taking the bowl instinctively and sitting up so he can spoon some into his mouth. It's hot (no shit, but he still manages to almost burn himself because he's sometimes an idiot but also more due to the fact that he's still thinking over the whole thing where Derek can make delicious soup and that he made said soup for Stiles), and _wow, this is seriously good. _Stiles tells him so, before downing the rest of the soup in record time.

Derek, when he takes the empty bowl back from a happily satisfied Stiles, looks... slightly smug, or pleased, or something similar which doesn't include his trademark Angry Eyebrows, and y'know, Stiles can deal with that. It's a better look than the constant cloud of doom and gloom that accompanies Derek everywhere.

"That was totally from a can, wasnt it?" Stiles jokes, grinning up at Derek lazily.

Derek rolls his eyes and goes to put the bowl away, coming back with a glass of water and cough drops instead. Stiles blinks in surprise and stares at them until Derek huffs and shoves them at him so he has to grab at them before they're dropped in his lap; no, he wouldn't put it past Derek, who can be an asshole as well as the rest of them.

"Uh, thanks," Stiles says anyway, kind of awkwardly but grateful all the same. He sips some water, winces at the raw feeling on his throat, and pops a lozenge in his mouth instead.

It's soothing, and he sits back and sucks on it silently, rolling it around between his teeth and tongue and observing with interest how Derek's gaze seems to be drawn to the movement before he snaps his eyes up to meet Stiles'. Neither of them say anything for a few moments. It's weird, though, he has to admit that. Surprisingly, not in the 'oh my god, I'm bed-ridden with flu on Derek Hale's couch and he's being nice and giving me soup and cough drops' way (okay, mostly not. Like, 73 percent not weird because of that particular reason). More due to the fact that Stiles has spent half his life independently taking care of himself. He's not exactly used to his needs being pandered to (or whatever's happening here), while ill or otherwise. It's not like his dad didn't take care of him or whatever, but being Sheriff of this fucked up town meant he was usually caught up in cases and paperwork and odd shifts, and after his mom's death Stiles had had to grow up fast. He had to take on the job of watching out for his father's health for both their sakes and if he got ill along the way, well, tough. He dealt; what other choice does he have?

It's been a long while since anyone's taken watch over him constantly while sick. So, this here? Stiles feels like he should be a lot more uncomfortable with it than he is.

It's just... nice, for a change. Even if it is Derek.

Or is it _inspite_ of the fact that it's Derek?

Of course, this would be the moment that his phone rings. Stiles startles, almost drops his glass in his haste to pull the cell out of his pocket. He glares at Derek when he snorts at the flailing before answering with resignation, noticing the four missed calls he's got from Scott.

"Scott, buddy, hey!"

"Stiles?" And, yeah, okay, he gets why Scott sounds all concerned. His voice sounds like shit. "You okay?"

Stiles tries to clear his throat. "Uh, yeah, just feeling a little under the weather, ya know?" He winces at the scratchiness in his throat. "You're all healed up from yesterday, right? And Boyd and Jackson?"

"Yeah, don't worry about us," Scott reassures, sounding more relieved now, even though there's an undercurrent of confusion. "Your jeep's not at your house, are- did Derek drop you off?"

"No? I kinda crashed on his couch..."

"Stiles! I could've taken you home if you were feeling that bad! Or, like - do you want me to get some things off my mom? I mean, you sound like crap, dude."

Stiles huffs, good-naturedly. He would take Scott up on his offer, but he's not actually feeling that bad anymore; Derek soup had done wonders. "Nah, it's cool, man, but thanks." Almost adds, _Derek's taking care of me,_ but the words stick in his throat when he glances up and catches the alpha's unreadable stare. "I'll see you later, okay?"

"Alright," replies Scott reluctantly. "Get some rest, dude."

"Will do."

They disconnect and Stiles drops the phone next to him on the couch cushion with a sigh. He drinks some water around the lozenge still in his mouth, now considerably smaller.

He catches Derek shifting out of the corner of his eye and turns to him; Derek looks almost torn between sitting down next to Stiles and sneaking off to do silent broody things alone. Stiles shifts over silently to make more room.

Derek narrows his eyes at the space, then at Stiles, and huffs quietly before sitting down. He doesn't wear his leather jacket in here much; down to just a V-neck and jeans, his body radiates heat that actually feels pretty fucking amazing next to Stiles' flu-chilled body. He finds himself leaning into it unconsciously; freezes halfway when he realises Derek's looking at him with a crooked eyebrow, then thinks, _fuck it_, and uses the closest shoulder as a pillow.

He's sick, okay.

Not like Derek seems to mind - if he does, he'd have pushed Stiles away by now, instead of sighing long-sufferingly (totally just for show, he's a softy who can't leave anyone miserable, remember? And Stiles is. Miserable, that is. Very.) and relaxing his tense (awesome) muscles so that Stiles is more comfortable.

He totally doesn't snuggle into Derek. Much.

Whatever, the warmth is making him drowsy again.

"Hey," he mumbles, whacking Derek's arm lightly then letting his hand rest there afterwards. "Thanks, dude."

He feels a puff of air on top of his head, shivers involuntarily, and smiles into Derek's shoulder at the quiet, "No problem."

He's, despite the shitty dryness in his throat and overall deadness everywhere, content.

...So, of course, he has to ruin it by sneezing. Multiple times, on Derek's arm.

"Crap," he groans, miserable once again. He lifts a hand to his burning face, trying to hide and disappear forever.

Derek makes a noise of disgust that's more halfway to a laugh and pulls away a bit. Stiles moans the loss, internally. Until he feels Derek wiping his arm off on his _shirt_, then he pulls his head up to glare, probably pitifully.

"You're lucky I can't get sick," Derek tells him. And, yeah, the fucker's actually amused by this, that is _amusement_ lifting the corners of his lips and lighting up his stupid eyes.

Stiles can't even pretend to glare anymore, he just grumbles and wipes at his nose with a tissue. "Does that bead we cab-" He stops with an eye roll when his again-stuffy nose fucks up his speech and Derek lets out a chuckle. "Laugh away, Sourwolf." He forgoes what he was going to say; instead, he just slides back into his previous position, after a brief manhandling of a bemused werewolf to get him to lean back again, and is soon curled into Derek warmth. He sighs happily. (If this is the only kind of situation where Derek and snuggling can happen simultaneously then you're damn well sure he's gonna take advantage of the fact.)

"What are you _doing_," Derek says after a few moments filled with just their breathing, almost creepily in sync.

Stiles notes that he sounds more amused than annoyed, which is always a good thing, even if he is laughing internally at how Stiles is practically wrapped around his arm. Unless he actually doesn't mind the cuddling, which is. Okay. Yeah. Stiles is too out of it right now to think about Derek and _voluntary cuddling_ without embarrassing himself (that's assuming he isn't doing enough of that now) so he is going to stop. This thought process.

_Right now. _

"Cuddling."

Or, y'know, his brain will take matters into its own hands and decide to forgo the mind-to-mouth filter in this instant. That, too, is a thing that happens.

"What."

Stiles shushes him and lets his eyes slip shut, already fully relaxed. "No talking. You're warm, I'm sick, you can't _get_ sick. Feels nice, 'kay?"

He is absolutely not imagining any fond-sounding softness in Derek's voice when he agrees quietly, "alright", nor the hand that comes up to rest at the nape of his neck tentatively. He just pushes closer, and sleeps.

* * *

><p>When Stiles wakes up, for the third time, in his own bed with the sun shining brightly into his eyes, he groans and shoves the pillow over his head.<p>

Only for it to go tumbling to the ground a moment later, followed closely by Stiles and his many flailing limbs, when certain recent events catch up to him. Mainly following the oddly cold, bare feeling along his entire right side.

Stiles drops his head back lightly against his bed frame. He scowls up at the ceiling and whines.

"Really?!"

* * *

><p>It takes another day and a half before Stiles is feeling more like himself and less like his brain is turning to mush with every sneeze, cough, or pounding headache. Granted, none of it is as bad as if was that first day, and he's well recovered in no time.<p>

He'd spent that time recuperating in his room with Scott watching reruns of Friends and being packed with antibiotics from Mrs McCall. As soon as he's back on his feet and got his head on proper, as proper as ever anyway, he makes the decision to confront the one thing that's been seriously ailing him this entire time.

The drive down to Derek's loft is a long one. Mainly because Stiles may or may not have almost stopped several times, actually _did_ turn around about five minutes in to head back home and throw himself into the kitchen before he can think twice about what he's doing and change his mind. Again.

Thirty minutes later finds Stiles standing awkwardly at the door to the loft with a bowl in his hands and one foot stepping back in a half conscious decision to fucking _retreat_ before he gives himself an actual reason to die of mortification. Some more. Like the other day wasn't enough.

Before he can linger (or run) for more than five seconds, the door swings open to reveal Derek, a puzzled frown drawing his eyebrows together.

Stiles stares at him. Derek leans against the doorframe and raises his eyebrows.

After a minute of stilted silence, Stiles holds up the bowl and says brightly, "Pudding?"

That makes Derek blink down at it in surprise before taking it cautiously and stepping back to let Stiles in. He saunters through, stops when his eyes fall on the couch, sitting innocuously in the middle of the room, and feels his face heat up. _What the fuck is he doing here, again?_

"You..." He jerks back to look at Derek, who's staring at him inscrutably while he places the bowl on a small table. "Made me pudding?" He tilts his head to the side just a bit and Stiles could laugh at how Mister Big, Bad and Broody can almost resemble a confused puppy. Almost.

Stiles shrugs, takes a couple steps closer. "You made me soup," he replies simply.

"You were sick." Derek slides his hands into his jacket pockets (was he going to head out?) and tries to look casual about it instead of uncomfortable with the scrutiny of Stiles' knowing gaze.

"Just take the damn pudding," Stiles huffs and waves a hand at it.

Derek glances up from the bowl with a smirk playing around his lips. "I see you can talk again."

He bites down a grin and frowns instead, poking a finger at Derek's chest (...muscles) in mock-indignation. "No need to sound so thrilled about it," he says sarcastically. Then adds, with a quirk of his lips, "I'll have you know I'm completely flu-free right now."

"Good to know," Derek says drily, because he likes to be a little shit like that and somehow Stiles is still inordinately (and, yeah, fondly) amused by it. He looks down and uncovers the pudding, pulling out the spoon in it and sticking it in his mouth, only looking up at Stiles in pleasant surprise when he replaces it into the bowl.

Stiles' brain dies completely and, before Derek can get the words "it's good" out, crashes his lips into Derek's with bruising force (and maybe a brief stumble and a flail). Which he would, you know, be completely embarrassed by if Derek didn't drop the spoon and circle his arms around Stiles in an instant. Stiles makes a weak noise at the back of his throat at the feeling of those arms curled around his back and licks his way into Derek's mouth, chasing the heady taste of chocolate pudding and _Derek, _and curls a hand into the sinfully soft hair at the nape of his neck while the other hand sneaks under the jacket so he can grab a fistful of Derek's shirt.

Stiles completely short circuits on any function that isn't physical or focused on the way Derek bites at his bottom lip and then his jawline and nuzzles at his neck and probably leaves stubble-burn everywhere but _Stiles so doesn't care at this point. _

He shivers when Derek breathes hotly onto the juncture between his neck and shoulder, "You smell better now," before biting down with human teeth.

Stiles pulls him up for a rough kiss and maybe it's more messy than anything but it's still fucking perfect. "Good to know," he mutters in a low voice against Derek's lips, repeating his words from earlier with a crooked smirk as he glances back up to lock eyes.

Derek's grin when he swoops in again is downright wolfish.

* * *

><p>So maybe there is a perk to being miserable and sick. It leads to snuggles, and home-made soup, and mouths that taste like pudding and lots and lots of kissing.<p>

..._Why_ didn't he think of this earlier?

* * *

><p><em>AN: The soup that Derek made Stiles was a special one from his mom, who would make it for him and his siblings after full moons when they were all tired and stuff from prancing around the forest in the moonlight and playing werewolf-family tag and adorable things like that._

_Derek does not make this soup for anyone. Stiles is special, clearly. *grins happily at them*_

_If you liked it, then I will love you forever if you let me know :3 Like, forever_

_Also, yeah, so I wrote this fic initially when I woke up with the flu the other day, and of course I wasn't gonna sit there and be miserable alone so I made Stiles be miserable with me and it was very cathartic, duh, and then it got better and so did I. xD_

_Last thing! Follow me on tumblr please? :) URL's __**stilinski-is-the-king**__, I'm multifandom, mostly Superwholock and Teen Wolf so. :3 Will follow you back if we share fandoms!_


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